


when we fall in love we wake up

by emjee (MerryHeart)



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I have found myself a new trash can and I like it here, I just need everyone who survives War and Peace to be happy ok, Kisses, One-Shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-11-23 08:30:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 11,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11398890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryHeart/pseuds/emjee
Summary: Everything leads back to them, the twin souls who found and loved each other in spite of death and life.A series of Natasha x Pierre one-shots based on tumblr prompts.





	1. love bites

_I fear that he may…seize me from behind, and kiss me on the neck…_

Natasha remembers that night at the opera, remembers imagining Anatole’s mouth against her skin, how sensual it would be, how terrifying, how delightful…

Reality is even more delightful than her imaginings, she has learned, and it will not do to think of Anatole now, she thinks, rolling over in her marriage bed and gazing at Pierre, still asleep, snoring gently.

Her husband. He’s certainly not the first man she thought would hold that title, but now she knows he is the only one who ever could. They’ve barely been out of bed all week, twin souls who were once so lonely and now can’t get enough of each other, of touching and holding and caressing.

And kissing, Natasha thinks, burying her face in her pillow to repress a giggle.

And biting.

For the first few nights–and days–their lovemaking was maddeningly, blissfully slow and indescribably gentle, as they explored and sought to learn everything about each other. Pierre, strong as he might be, is also incredibly careful, and Natasha loves him all the more for it, and yet in the past few nights she has found herself pulling her husband on top of her, wanting to feel him pressed against her, so close, so close…

And then he’d buried his face in her neck, breathing her name and pressing kisses against her soft skin, and she found herself whispering, harder, as her fingers curled in his hair, and she could feel the scrape of his teeth and heard the sound of her own breath…

Her heart is beating faster in her chest and she wonders just how late Pierre will sleep. He is turned away from her; she snuggles closer, winding an arm around his waist and nuzzling the nape of his neck. His breathing changes a moment later as he wakes, turning in her arms and staring at her, so close he has no need of his spectacles.

“Good morning,” he rumbles, his voice gravelly with sleep.

“Good morning,” Natasha smiles, and they kiss softly, over and over, morning breath be damned. She feels his hand run up her side, gathering the fabric of her nightgown.

“How long do we have?” Pierre asks.

“Sonya will be here for tea in the afternoon. The morning is all yours, since you decided not to sleep through it.”

“You’re as intoxicating as a bottle of vodka, but without any of the unpleasant effects the next day.” Pierre brushes her hair away from her neck and Natasha is sure he will lean in to kiss her, but he pulls away instead.

“What is it?” she asks, her brow furrowing.

The corner of Pierre’s mouth twists into a smile that is part embarrassment and part satisfaction.

“You may wish to wear your hair down today.”

“Why is that?” Natasha demands, sitting up.

“Go look in the glass.” She throws off the covers and pads over to the mirror on the opposite wall.

“Oh.” There are dark marks up and down her skin, bruises, evidence of her husband’s ardor.

“I am sorry,” she hears him say, “I didn’t realize I was…I’ll be more careful.”

“Don’t.” She turns around, beaming, and leaps back into bed with him. “I like it.”

“You do?”

“Very much.”

“But you’d tell me if I was hurting you?”

Natasha touches her fingers to Pierre’s cheek. “Of course I would.”

He nods, already leaning in to kiss her. “Good.”

She flings herself back on the bed and hauls her husband down to her.

They’re barely dressed when Sonya arrives for tea.


	2. teaching something new

There was no chance of going out that night. Outside, the snow was falling fast and thick, the beginning of another long winter.

But it did not bother Natasha. She was curled into a corner of the sofa, feet tucked under her, her knitting needles sliding against each other with soft clicks. Pierre sat in an armchair by the fire, reading, now and then pushing his spectacles up when they slid down the bridge of his nose. Natasha glanced up at him every so often, filled with wonder that the two of them should have found each other after all the pain that had filled the beginning of their lives.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on, and Natasha noticed the rasp of turning pages growing less and less frequent. She glanced up at him once more and caught him studying her, his head tilted to one side, his book closed on his lap, forgotten.

Natasha smiled. “What is it?”

“Your hands,” Pierre blurted. “I mean...I...I just enjoy watching you knit. You’re so deft about it, so clever. And...in the war, there were men who knitted their own stockings. It calmed them, they told me, and better to know how to make and mend your own than lose your toes to frostbite. I meant to learn, but I never...” He shook his head and removed his glasses, cleaning them with his shirt. Natasha had noticed he did this whenever he wasn’t quite sure what to say next.

“Would you...would you like me to teach you?” Natasha ventured.

Pierre looked up at her and returned his glasses to his face. “I--I don’t want to interrupt you.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Natasha, putting her half-finished mittens aside. “I have an extra set of needles. Come here.”

Pierre moved to sit by her, and she pressed herself against him, savoring his warmth, before producing a ball of soft wool. “Marya Dmitryevna taught me how to knit when I was very small,” she explained, “and I swear I can recall those lessons word-for-word.”

“One doesn’t quickly forget things Marya Dmitryevna says.”

They sat up late into the night, Natasha showing how to hold the needles, to cast on, to do a run of basic stitches. Her small hands guided his larger ones; she remembered how many times he had pressed her hands with his own, and kissed them, and how he had held her when her world came apart at the seams. How he’d helped her knit it back together.

Pierre set his work aside when Natasha began to fall asleep against his shoulder. He scooped her up in him arms--a dramatic gesture, he knew, but one that he indulged in nonetheless--and carried her to their bedroom, and the snow continued to fall.

 


	3. basorexia

_basorexia--an overwhelming desire to kiss_

 Natasha could barely take her eyes off him. 

The newly-married Bezukhovs were attending their first dinner party since their marriage, and Pierre was holding his own in a literary discussion that had taken a detour into the theological. Natasha was obliged to engage in conversation with those seated next to her and was thus unable to follow the entire debate, but every time she looked down to where Pierre was seated, his face was alight and he was leaning into the conversation with his usual artlessness. Natasha often wondered if he had any idea how brilliant he was.

Or how distracting. Perhaps it was because they were still in the honeymoon phase, but watching her husband talk about God and books and politics with that beautiful spark in his eyes made Natasha want to curl up in his lap and kiss him for hours.

She felt a flush creeping into her cheeks and forced herself to pay attention the opinions the countess sitting next to her had on the latest French fashions.

There was dancing after dinner. “How was your dinner conversation?” Pierre asked, drawing his wife close to him for the waltz.

“Far less edifying than yours, I’m sure. Oksana Nikolaevna could try God’s own patience.”

Pierre snorted in spite of himself. “You’ve inherited your godmother’s tongue.”

“And you love me for it.”

The corner of Pierre’s mouth twitched as he tried to repress a smile. The small movement drew Natasha’s gaze to his lips, and then that flush returned, her whole face warming, her own mouth parting slightly. The only thing that mattered was the heat of Pierre’s hand against her waist, of his other hand pressed against hers. 

This was surely why happy newlyweds were rarely seen in society.

“Natasha?” Pierre murmured. “Are you alright?”

“Quite,” Natasha replied, trying to remember how to breathe.

The waltz came to an end. Pierre took both of her hands in his, pressing a kiss to them, and it was all Natasha could do to stop herself from ordering the sleigh brought round so they could return home immediately. It would be the height of rudeness this early in the evening.

But all parties draw to a close eventually, and as the Bezukhovs sped toward home, Natasha held fast to Pierre, reminding herself that sleighs were not the appropriate place for ardent kisses.

Once home, Natasha divested herself of her coat, dismissed the maid, and hurried upstairs, knowing Pierre would follow her.

“Natasha,” he said, crossing the threshold of their bedroom, “are you sure everything’s–” Natasha pulled the door closed and backed Pierre against it. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” said Natasha, skimming her hands over his chest, his shoulders, his neck. “I just–seeing you out in company tonight, listening to you talk about everything you’ve studied, hearing your voice from across the room, so full of–” She pulled him down to her, unable to finish her thought. 

Their noses brushed; Natasha savored the last of the anticipation that had been building all evening, then pressed her lips to Pierre’s. 

In an instant his arms were wrapped around her waist and he picked her up, held her close, returned her kisses so fiercely that he almost lost his balance. He felt her mouth open, her tongue sliding against his, and he was lost, utterly lost, and he heard Natasha moan, her arms tightening around his neck. This was the center of the universe, he was certain. There was nothing outside of Natasha, warm and close and alive, blood racing under her skin, loving him for his words, telling him how much she loved him without any of those words. She worried his bottom lip between her teeth and he felt himself lean back against the door with a _thud_ , his knees going weak.

He put her down when his arms started shaking and bent to press his forehead against hers. She leaned into him, her breathing still heavy. 

“Better?” he asked.

“Infinitely.” 

 

 


	4. getting caught in a storm

Thinking back, Natasha reflected, they should have expected it.

They’d gotten out of the city for the summer, retreating to (one of) Pierre’s country houses. Although they’d been settled in for weeks, Natasha had spent the whole morning on edge for no particular reason. When she burst into tears after someone banged a door too loudly, Pierre took her by the hand and hauled her out of her chair.

“Come on,” he cajoled. “We should go out for a walk. It helps, trust me.”

She trusted Pierre with her life, of course, and she trusted him to know about these things. Despite their married bliss, he still fell into occasional bouts of melancholy, while she was prone to random spells of nervousness. They’d each learned what the other needed: Pierre wanted her near him but never wanted anyone to make a fuss, while she needed to be held and cared for. And, sometimes, dragged out of the house for exercise.

Natasha’s mood began to lighten as they walked briskly, farther and farther out across the fields. The wind began to pick up, twitching Natasha’s skirts and blowing her hair around her face. She laughed as it pushed at their backs, then threw her arms out and began to run, the knot between her shoulders easing with every breath. 

A moment later she turned and ran back to Pierre, grabbing his hands and looking up into his smiling face. “I feel like I could fly today, my love,” she said, tugging him along with her. “Shall we try?”

“I think there’s rather too much of me to leave the ground successfully,” said Pierre, stopping and pulling her to him. “You, on the other hand…” He grabbed his wife around the waist and lifted her straight into the air, relishing her delighted shriek. When he set her down she wound her arms around his neck.

“I feel infinitely better, Petrushka,” Natasha murmured. “Thank you.”

And that was when they heard thunder.

The sky had been overcast all day, so perhaps that was why they had not noticed the storm blowing up around them. Rain began to fall, thick and fast, and they were so far from the house that there was no chance of getting back before they were utterly soaked.

“We should go back,” Pierre said, raising his voice over the sound of the rain. 

“In a moment,” Natasha insisted, stepping back and spinning as she tilted her face to the sky. “It’s been forever since I stood in the rain. Once, when we were young, I convinced Sonya to run barefoot with me through the yard of the Petersburg house. We splashed in so many puddles and came in soaking and covered in mud and we got such a scolding and I caught a chill, but it was absolutely worth it. You came to read to me while I was sick, do you remember?”

“I do,” said Pierre. “You asked me to read ‘The Night Dances’ so many times.”

“It’s still my favorite fairy tale. True love and dancing every night.”

Pierre gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I cannot give you the dancing every night.”

“Hush,” said Natasha, turning back to him. “You give me your love. That’s all I could ever want.” She lifted her face to his. “Kiss me?”

Pierre skimmed a hand down her back and leaned down to meet Natasha’s mouth, already open, her warm tongue sliding against his and providing a strangely delightful contrast with the cold rain. He wished it were warm and dry, he wished he could drag her down onto the grass and lie there with her all day.

“We should go back,” he gasped when they broke apart. How long had they been standing there? It didn’t matter. His hair was plastered to his forehead and Natasha’s thin summer dress was clinging to her skin. “I don’t want you catching a chill today.”

“But if I did,” Natasha said, taking Pierre’s hand as they made their way back to the house, “you would still read to me, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t think I’d be able to leave your bedside,” he answered, and then, continuing in the same casual tone, “so I’ll have to get you out of those wet clothes as soon as we get home.” He felt Natasha’s hand tighten against his. “Get you some hot water to wash with. Make sure you’re completely dry.”

Natasha glanced up with him, her mouth twisting into a smirk. “Race you.” She dropped his hand and took off running.

“Tasha!” he called, dashing after her. “Not fair! You don’t have spectacles that are fogging up!”

 


	5. post-engagement

_Yes. Yes I could. Yes I **do** , dear Pierre._

It’s everything she’s ever wanted, she realizes, wrapped in Pierre’s strong arms, her mouth open against his. Her dearest love and–apart from Sonya, perhaps–her oldest friend.

Of course she loves him. Of course she wants to bind her heart and soul to his. 

She’s never kissed a man for this long before. All of her previous kisses were either affectionate but brief or hasty, stolen, shameful things. But now there is only Pierre against her, holding her, loving her, and she wants to just melt into him. He skims his hand down her back and it comes to rest at her waist; she hooks an arm around his shoulder and uses the leverage to pull herself up, closer, anything to be closer. Moscow could burn again around them and she’d burn with it, happily. Right now, Pierre is more important than everything. More important than air.

It is Pierre who pulls away first, barely, then touches his forehead to Natasha’s. His eyes are shining with tears. “I–I didn’t dare–” he whispers, “I didn’t dare think about what I would say if you said yes, and maybe it’s just as well because I don’t think I would have remembered any of it, but Natasha, dear Natasha, I am the happiest man in creation, I’d stake my life on it.”

Natasha feels tears rolling down her own cheeks and hiccups a laugh. “When I was younger, I always thought I would know love the first time I saw it. I thought about it all the time; I was so in love with the idea of it, but then…” Pierre squeezes her as she trails off. “Then I discovered I didn’t know at all. Not at all. There you were, and you always brought my heart joy, and I didn’t see it…”

She leans her head against Pierre’s chest and he tangles his fingers in her hair. “Shhh…”

“But now…oh, Pierre. Pierre, my friend, my love…”

There is a knock at the door. Natasha stands on tiptoe to press one more kiss to Pierre’s mouth before striding across the room and throwing the door open to reveal Princess Marya. Pierre cannot see the look on Natasha’s face, but he has a perfect view of the smile that spreads across Marya’s face in reply as she embraces Natasha with a delighted laugh. It warms his soul to see his dear friend happy as often as she is now. The two best women in his life will soon be sisters.

“We must tell Nikolai!” Marya exclaims.

“And Sonya!”

“And of course you’ll have to stay for dinner, Pierre,” Marya says over Natasha’s shoulder. “We have so much to celebrate!”

“Of course I’ll stay,” says Pierre, crossing the room to take Natasha’s outstretched hand. “The real question is if you’ll be able to get me to leave.”

Marya laughs again and rushes out to speak to the kitchen staff.

“Soon you’ll never have to,” Natasha tells him, and pulls him down for another kiss, even though the doors are open, even though anyone could pass by.

 _I have finally found someone with as much love to give as I have_ , Natasha thinks.  _Look, look at my love._

Anyone could see them.

She hopes someone does.

 


	6. go back to sleep

Pierre awoke in darkness.

It must be the heat, he thought. Although he often had trouble getting to sleep, once he was there it usually took broad daylight and kisses from Natasha to wake him. The summer air, however, made it difficult to remain asleep when the humidity was so high one never felt cool.

He rolled over and expected to bump against Natasha, who still slept as close to him as she could tolerate in the heat.

Her side of the bed was empty.

Pierre’s half-asleep haze evaporated instantly and he sat up, wiping sweat from his forehead. This was his nightmare. The one that came back more than any of the others, more than marching across the country in a winter that was hard to remember with the summer air stifling him. He was alone, alone again in his huge, empty house, with no one to talk to or touch or love. Again.

And then he heard her voice. “Shhh, darling, I’m here.” She was sitting by the window, he was fairly certain. He knew better than to try and find his spectacles in the dark. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

Instead, Pierre tossed back the single sheet that he couldn’t sleep without, even in the heat, and walked toward the sound of Natasha’s voice. “What are you doing up?”

She reached out a hand and he took it, kneeling down beside her. If he put his face close to hers he could see her clearly, by the light of the full moon shining through the window. “I just couldn’t sleep,” she said with a small shrug. “I tried, for a few hours, but the heat…” She turned back to the window. “I thought I’d sit up and look at the moon.”

“Tell me what it looks like.”

“It’s huge,” Natasha sighed, “and golden over the tree tops. It looks like a coin resting on velvet. Every so often a cloud passes over it and it goes hazy.” She gave Pierre’s hand a squeeze. “There’s something about it that makes me so sad.”

Pierre raised her hand to his face and pressed a kiss in the center of her palm. “Will you come back to bed, Natasha?”

She gave him a small, tired smile. “Of course, love. Is there any water left in the washbasin?”

“I think so.” Pierre returned to bed as Natasha padded over to the washstand, soaking a cloth with cool water and washing her face. He could just make out the movement of her lifting her braid to dab at her neck.

She slipped into bed beside him and he buried his nose in her hair. Natasha always smelled vaguely floral. He began to press small kisses across her face.

“Mmmmm,” Natasha sighed, throwing an arm over her head and kicking the sheet to the bottom of the bed. “That’s lovely.”

“It scared me when you weren’t there,” Pierre whispered.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, please don’t, I just needed to say it. And I needed to kiss you, even though it’s hot.”

Natasha skimmed her fingers along the sleeve of Pierre’s nightshirt. “Since the heat isn’t going anywhere, perhaps we should…”

“Engage in activities that would result in us getting hot and sweaty anyway?”

“It’s making the best of a hard situation.” Pierre snorted in spite of himself. “And it might help us sleep.”

“Tasha, you had me at, ‘since the heat isn’t going anywhere.’”

They both sat up and pulled their night shifts over their heads, watching them fall to the floor in a tumble of white linen.

They slept very late the next morning. 


	7. mamihlapinatapei

_mamihlapinatapei: the look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move. (aka[this](https://je-suis-em-jee.tumblr.com/post/162435769807).)_

She’s listening to everything he’s saying, of course, as they sit by the fire with Marya Bolkonskya, talking late into the night. But there’s also a part of her that’s still frozen one the sofa, staring at him, unnoticed, as he walked in the door.

_Alive_.

The chaos of the war coming to their doorstep has abated now, which means that every so often she allows herself to imagine, almost to hope…

No, she stops herself. That won’t do. She’s ruined love in her life before; she doesn’t deserve another chance. Certainly not with Pierre, the most deserving man she knows, a man who’s stared death in the face who-knows-how-many times and is still sitting here in a chair across from her, telling her about it.

Pierre, who came to talk to her whenever she asked…after. Pierre, who never looked at her with scorn or contempt, who never looked at her with anything but the fiercest tenderness.

She closes her eyes before anyone can see that they’re brimming with tears. She focuses on Pierre’s voice, how earnest it always is, that cadence that she always recognizes as his, that she’s never heard anyone else use.

Pierre’s voice is the only thing in the world.

*

His mind is only half on his story.

The other half–or perhaps it is three-quarters–is busy absorbing the fact that he is a bachelor once more, and the only woman he’s ever loved is still unmarried, and they are both on the other side of the war alive, intact.

It is almost too much to process. Happiness seems suspiciously close, and Pierre doesn’t trust it. Not after everything he’s seen. Not with who he is.

How could she possibly love him? Her heart once belonged to Andrei, a handsome, sterling example of what a man should be. As dearly as he had loved his best friend, Pierre knew that their differences outnumbered their similarities. What use could Natasha Rostova have with a confused, clumsy oaf who was too large to be comfortable in any drawing room he entered?

And yet…if anyone could love him, it would be Natasha. She had love running through her veins. He imagines it’s like starlight, making her glow from within. He sees her glance over at Marya and yes, there it is, that look so full of affection he wonders how her body manages to contain it all, how her soul didn’t just rise out of her to linger above the rest of them.

She returns her gaze to him, then closes her eyes.

He thinks he sees the brilliance of a tear caught in her lashes, but decides it must be a trick of the light.


	8. tired/reunion/first

_a tired kiss_

“She’s perfect,” Pierre said, gazing down at his newborn daughter squirming in his wife’s arms. 

“She’s in excellent health, Your Excellency,” the midwife said, “as is your wife. You’re a brave one, my dear,” she said to Natasha. “I’ve not had one as determined as you in a long time.”

Natasha sank back against clean pillows and freshly-changed sheets, utterly exhausted but incandescently happy. “Look at her hair,” she murmured. “She’s got a dark mess of it, like yours.”

“Your eyes, though, and thank God for that.”

“Your eyes are lovely.”

“My eyes are defective.”

“Hush.”

Their daughter curled one tiny hand around Natasha’s finger and Pierre genuinely thought he would melt through the floor. “What shall we call her?” he asked.

“What would you say to Sofia?”

“For Sonya?”

“Yes.”

A child named for his wife’s best friend, and for wisdom, the pursuit of his life. Pierre reached out to stroke Natasha’s hair. “I think it’s perfect.”

“Sofia Petrovna,” Natasha whispered, bouncing her baby girl gently in her arms. “Welcome to being alive.” She looked over at Pierre. “Would you like to hold her?”

“I…yes. Yes, just show me how.”

Natasha leaned toward him, showed him how to place his hand under Sofia’s head. He scooped his daughter into his arms and felt tears welling in his eyes. “My God, Natasha. She’s perfect. Look what you did.”

“You did help, you know.”

“Nonsense,” said Pierre, shaking his head as he continued to stare at the tiny child in his arms. “After what I’ve seen you do today, I think it’s absurd that children take their father’s name instead of their mother’s.”

Natasha laughed softly, her eyes drifting closed. “I think I need to sleep,” she mumbled.

“A fine idea, Your Excellency,” said the midwife. “Hold her for as long as you like,” she said to Pierre, “and I’ll take her when you’re ready.”

Natasha reached a hand out to touch Pierre’s face. “Kiss me.”

He leaned forward, Sofia cradled between them, and pressed a kiss to her lips. He felt the flutter of her lashes against his cheeks.

Pierre had never been so in love.

*

_a reunion kiss_

Natasha couldn’t wait until they were married and she got to see him every day.

This engagement business was all well and good–she would much rather be engaged to Pierre than not, after all–but the odd days here and there where they couldn’t find a time to meet were getting tiresome. It was silly, she knew–she’d gone months in the past without seeing him, years, even, but now she could hardly bear to be apart for twenty-four hours. Marya and Sonya were amused by it, but Natasha was not.

Pierre was the best, brightest person in the world. Of course she wanted to be with him all the time. 

Moscow traffic was not helping matters. Natasha had half a mind to get out of the carriage and walk the last few blocks to Pierre’s townhouse, but she doubted Marya Dmitryevna, who was sitting opposite her and smirking, would allow that.

When they finally arrived, the manservant who opened the door informed Natasha that Pierre would be found in the library. “Shall I ask him to come to the drawing room, Your Excellency?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Natasha said quickly. “I can see myself up to the library.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Marya dryly as Natasha hurried up the stairs. “I brought my knitting.” She turned to the manservant. “If you would be so kind as to show me to the drawing room.”

Pierre was searching for a volume of poetry when he heard the knock at the door. He hopped off the step-stool that even he had to use sometimes and strode over to the oak double doors, turning the handle and swinging it open to reveal–

“Tasha!”

Natasha squealed with delight and threw her arms around his neck. A moment later their lips had met, and Pierre wasn’t quite sure how that had happened. He hardly cared; it meant Natasha had missed him as much as he had missed her. It meant that his fears that he would care for her far more than she would care for him were completely unfounded.

He held her close after the kiss ended. “Why does every hour without you feel so insipid?” Natasha asked. “Even if we were just sitting the same room, not even talking, it would still be better than being amused halfway across town. I’m  _asleep_  for half of the time we’re not together and it’s still less pleasant without…oh.”

Pierre smiled his quiet smile and dropped a kiss to Natasha’s forehead. “Not much longer now, love.”

“Two weeks.”

“Give it two more and you’ll think fondly of the days when you were able to roll over in bed without accidentally kicking someone.”

“I don’t know what days you’re talking about; Sonya and I still share a bed in the winter.” Natasha raised a hand to Pierre’s face and felt him lean into the caress. “Petrushka,” she murmured. “I cannot wait to be married to you.”

*

 _a first kiss_ ([bottom left gif, still slays me](https://je-suis-em-jee.tumblr.com/post/162376027192/blackwildow-thats-because-you-really-love))

They’ve waited for this for so long.

Pierre has known for–he can’t even remember how long, now. It’s a more recent revelation for Natasha, but that doesn’t prevent her from wanting it more than she’s wanted anything in her life.

The physical world has always been so present for Natasha, light and colors and sounds and touches, and there have been times when she’s yearned so badly so be kissed she could scream. 

And here is Pierre, her dearest Pierre, Pierre who is made up of reds and blues, and he’s leaning toward her so slowly. Sight becomes too much and Natasha closes her eyes against it, squeezes them tight as she feels the first touch of Pierre’s mouth against hers. There is no chaste brushing of lips here; both of them have their mouths open, sharing breath. This kiss is electrifying from the first.

Everything is so warm: Pierre’s tongue stroking against hers; his body, soft and solid and holding her tight; his skin beneath her fingertips. She wants him closer, even closer, her hand coming to the back of his head, fingers combing through his hair, pressing her to him. She feels his arm go around her waist, steadying her. It’s the same for him, she knows. He wants her as close as they can possibly be. 

Neither of them want to let go.


	9. i like

Natasha comes in late. Pierre is still up.

She finds him, not in their bedroom reading, as she had expected, but in his study, at his desk. Staring at a bottle of wine. Motionless.

He doesn’t acknowledge her when she appears in the doorway. She waits for nearly a minute before she speaks.

“I’m home.”

He tears his gaze away from the bottle. “You are. How was the opera?”

“Well-sung, to be sure, but less enjoyable without you.”

Pierre shakes his head. “You wouldn’t have wanted me with you tonight. Thank you for...understanding.”

For letting him stay home, he means.

“Of course,” Natasha says, depositing her fur stole on a chair and coming to lean on the edge of Pierre’s desk. She takes his hand and presses a kiss to it, long and hard.

“Oh, Natasha,” Pierre sighs, shaking his head and tugging his hand away. He leans his elbows on the desk, removes his spectacles, covers his face with his hands.

“One of those days?” Natasha asks.

“Worse than it’s been in nearly a year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be sorry. You shouldn’t...you shouldn’t have to deal with me like this. It’s not fair to you. It’s not fair to you at all.”

“Hush,” she says, kneeling beside his chair. “I could just as well say it’s not fair to you, having to deal with a high-strung wife prone to fits of panic and crying for no discernible reason.”

“Stop it.”

“You stop it.” Her tone is almost playful. She sticks her tongue out at him, but he isn’t looking at her. She sighs. “The bottle?”

“Still corked.”

“That’s something, then.” Avoiding alcohol altogether was next to impossible in the circles they ran in, but since their wedding Pierre drank far less than he used to, and never alone.

“A very small thing. My God, Natasha.” He turns to look at her, his eyes straining to bring her into focus without his glasses. “You deserve so much more than the sad, fat man you have for a husband.”

Natasha leans forward, takes Pierre’s face in her hands. “Don’t. Don’t you dare speak about the love of my life that way. Love isn’t about  _deserving_ , Pierre. Do you know who taught me that?” He does not reply. “ _You_. When I was so convinced that I deserved nothing, not love, not happiness, not life, you were the one who was always right there, telling me I had the whole world before me. That I deserved it. And perhaps I do not; only God can judge that, but do you know what, I believed you. I believe you still, and I believe that God would be of your thinking. And of mine.”

She stops, unable to think of what else to say. Pierre put his spectacles back on and she sees tears welling in his eyes, the slight shake of his head, and then he’s leaning forward and his mouth is crashing against hers, his hands going to her waist, pulling her up, closer to him. She wraps her arms around his neck, moans into his mouth, surprised by this turn of events but eager for the wordless expression of how much she adores him.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps between deep, frenzied kisses, “I didn’t know--I didn’t know what else--”

“It’s alright,” she replies, just as breathless as he, “it’s more than alright.”

“I still don’t understand...” He touches his forehead to hers as his breathing begins to even out. “Even after half a year of marriage, forgive me, I still don’t understand what you could see in a man like me, when there are hundreds of others more graceful, more handsome...”

“Shhhh.” Natasha rakes her fingers through his hair and gives him one of those soft, thoughtful looks. “There are so many things I see in you. So many things I wish I could tell you.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I mean...I have told you some of them, I promise. But they’re not all...decent.”

Her words sound modest, but the sparkle in her eye is far from it.

“I could...” She takes a deep breath. “I could tell you, if you wanted, I could  _show_  you, but only if you want, Petrushka, and I promise I completely understand if you just want to go to sleep, or to stay up for longer and talk, or not talk, whatever you want is--”

Pierre cuts her off by scooping her into his arms and standing, bending his head to kiss her again for good measure.

“Natasha Bezukhova,” he whispers, relishing the fact that she shares his last name, “are you offering to take me to bed?”

Natasha tilts her chin up, trying to look dignified with her arms around Pierre’s neck and her feet dangling in the air. “I am. But, as I said, only if you--”

“Only if I want. I do. I want, Natasha, I want so, so much, the problem is that I don’t  _understand_ \--”

“Then take me upstairs and allow me to explain myself.”

So he does.

*

He helps her out of her evening gown and petticoat; she stands before him in her shift. He’s in his shirtsleeves and trousers, feet bare, his jacket and cravat having disappeared hours ago. Before or after the contemplation of the wine bottle, he cannot remember.

“I like that you’re tall,” she says, standing on her tiptoes to murmur in his ear. “It makes me feel…small, but in a good way. Graceful.” She runs her hands across his chest and up, over his shoulders. “And I like that you’re broad. It makes me feel safe. You’re solid. I can cling to you.” She presses a kiss to the shell of his ear, slowly lowers herself to stand flat on the floor, kissing down his neck as she goes. She tilts her face to him and he bends down, kissing her, deep and slow.

He feels her hands go to the waist of his trousers, untucking his shirt. She slides her hands beneath the linen, runs them over his flushed skin, the paunch of his stomach, without a trace of hesitation or disgust. She traces higher, across his chest, her fingers combing through the dark hair that curls there. He raises his arms and she moves to pull his shirt off, then gives a little hop to indicate she’s too short to do this on her own. He bends over obligingly and she tosses it over her shoulder, giving him an appraising look before stepping forward once more and pressing her mouth to his nipple.

Pierre gasps as Natasha rasps her tongue against him, then bites his lip to keep from moaning as she swirls and sucks at him. The sensation goes straight to his groin. He cradles the back of her head with one hand as she begins to kiss down his chest, following the line of hair past his navel until she’s kneeling in front of him.

Good God, he knows what’s next, knows how quietly proud Natasha is of her ability to turn him inside out when she does this. She sits back on her heels and looks up at him, giving him another chance to call the whole tryst off and fall into bed exhausted, but he gives her a small, sure nod, and then her fingers are unfastening the buttons of his trousers and he’s exposed, aching and wanting, surprisingly aroused after the funk he’s been in all day.

Then Natasha’s mouth is on him and he thinks the arousal is not surprising at all.

She takes her time, licking up and down his length and sucking at him gently. He buries his fingers in her hair, dislodging hairpins and curls her maid had carefully arranged for the opera. She makes a small humming noise in the back of her throat, and it nearly undoes him.

“Tasha. Standing is…getting difficult.”

She removes her mouth and presses her forehead against his thigh. “I love you, Petrushka.”

His heart is too full to speak, and she understands. Of course she does.

He helps Natasha to her feet and steps out of his trousers.

“Bed,” she says gently. “On your back.”

God, but he loves it when she tells him what to do. She’s firm about it, but never harsh, always kind enough that he’s comfortable refusing.

He hardly ever does.

Pierre sprawls back against the pillows as Natasha climbs onto the bed after him.

“What about you?” he asks.

“See for yourself,” she replies, moving to straddle his face. He grips her arse under her shift and raises his head to lick at her, taste her, and yes, _God_ yes, she’s as far gone as he is.

“You’re so good at that,” she moans. He could stay like this all night, and he knows that she’s tempted, but she braces herself against the headboard and pushes herself up, sliding down to lie on top of him. Her face hovers over his.

“You taste divine,” he says.

“So do you.”

“Kiss me?”

“Kiss _me_.”

She makes no move to close the space between them, so Pierre leans up once more, his mouth opening against hers, tongue sliding against hers. She pushes him back down against the pillows and presses her whole body against him.

“I like—” she manages between kisses, “I like that—you’re soft. You’re so—comfortable to—sleep with.—In—every sense—of the term.” She breaks away and he feels her chest rise and fall against his. His mouth is still open, and she bends down to suck his bottom lip between her teeth before moving again, lower, straddling him.

“If I may?”

“Please, Tasha.”

She takes his length in her hand and sinks down onto him with a groan, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

“Pierre…Pierre, my love, you feel amazing.”

“So do you, Natasha, my God…Let me see you. Please.”

A smug smile creeps across her face as she raises the hem of her shift, pulls it over her head, and discards it over the side of the bed. And then slowly, torturously, she raises herself up and sinks back down, her mouth falling open at the pleasure of it. Pierre bites back a curse.

She’s so exquisite, he thinks, looking up at his beautiful, naked wife, the woman he loves who loves him in spite of—in spite of everything, Pierre would say, but he knows Natasha would disagree. _Because_ of everything, that’s what she would insist.

He reaches for her, skims his hands up her sides, palms her breasts, rolls her nipples between his fingers.

“Pierre,” she gasps, beginning to take him harder. “That’s magnificent.”

“What’s it like?”

She closes her eyes, her rhythm quickening to match the tumble of words. “It’s like, it’s like stars, like stars all over, and champagne bubbles, it’s like when you’ve danced too many dances in a row at a ball without getting something to drink, but you just couldn’t help yourself, does that make sense, that doesn’t make any sense—”

“It does, I promise it does.”

“—and you’re just so good, I _love_ you, please believe me, you have to believe me.”

“Look at me, Tasha, sweetheart, look at my face.”

Natasha opens her eyes, her pace slowing at Pierre’s hands come to her hips. She looks down at him and tries not to cry.

“I do believe you. I promise before God, I do. And I love you. I love you more than I thought it was possible to love.”

She takes one of his hands, presses a kiss to his palm, clenches herself around him.

“I’m so close, Natasha, so close…”

She rocks slowly, deeply, feels her climax move through her in waves, continues to move against him until she feels him come inside her, hears him exhale her name, the tenderest thing he’s said all night.

Natasha lifts herself up and collapses beside him, exhausted. He leans forward and kisses the tip of her nose.

“I know it’s not a cure,” she says, her voice low. “But…but if it helped…”

“It was wonderful,” he assures her. “You are wonderful.”

They clean each other off at the washbasin, don their sleeping gowns, and fall back into bed. The last thing Pierre notices before he falls asleep is Natasha’s legs tangled with his, her arm draped across him, her face buried in his neck.


	10. simple

It’s the small things that get to him.

One night they’re getting ready to go out and Natasha changes her mind about her necklace after having dismissed her maid.

“Pearls,” she mutters, “not the sapphires, what was I thinking? Petrushka?”

He looks up from his book. He’s been ready to go for fifteen minutes.

“Will you help me with my clasp?”

“Gladly.” He smiles, lays the book face-down on the bed, and crosses the room to her dressing table. His fingers brush the nape of her neck, the downy hairs that curl there, too short and fine to be swept up with the rest. He feels her shiver as he undoes the clasp, slowly, knowing that this will be easier for him if he doesn’t rush and fumble. There’s perfume in her hair, he can smell it, floral and delicious, and he doesn’t care that he’s far from the best dancer in Moscow, he can’t wait to take her out and be on her arm. Be _in_ her arms.

She sighs a lovely sigh as he places the sapphires back in their case and reaches for the pearls, fastening them with equal care. He is so tempted to bend down and kiss her neck, maybe give her a mark to remember him by, a mark to remind all of Moscow that there is in fact one woman who desires his attention, who loves him.

That one is all he wants or needs.

And then the thought makes his eyes sting and he blinks back the tears, knowing that Natasha will start crying if she sees him, and they’re already later than they should be.

She asks him to help take out her hairpins when they return home.

Neither of them are particularly patient about it.


	11. nuzzles

Her husband talks in his sleep.

Natasha thinks it’s adorable, most of the time, but he does occasionally mumble about Napoleon, which Natasha finds obnoxious. The man was kicked out of Russia years before. _By the Russian winter_. He has no business being in her bedchamber, even it is only in name.

Napoleon aside, however, there are few things Natasha does not love about sharing a bed with Pierre. Both he and the bed are large, warm, and soft, and he has no qualms about his wife clinging to him like a cat to a favorite toy. 

Although he often lies awake late into the night, Pierre also sleeps like the dead, and far later than Natasha does.

This crisp winter morning is not the first time that Natasha has stared up at the ceiling, sun pouring through the windows, Pierre’s heavy arm draped across her, wondering when her husband will _get up_. She hates waking him since sleep so often evades him, but at the same time…she’s bored. And hungry.

She has a moment of hope when Pierre rolls over, his face coming to rest in the crook of her neck. He shivers–he’s kicked most of the covers off, she realizes, but their room is often cold in the mornings–and nuzzles her more firmly. “Natasha…”

She is certain he must be awake now, or at least in that twilight space between waking and sleeping where she has fewer compunctions about kissing his face until this eyes open.

But his breathing remains even, his eyes firmly shut. “Love you, Natasha,” he murmurs against her skin. Completely asleep.

She reaches a hand around and threads her fingers through his hair, savoring the press of his body and the feel of his breath, and the knowledge that he can’t stop professing his love even when his body has put him out of commission so he can continue to function.

Breakfast can wait.


	12. slow dancing

It’s spring in Moscow; the city is just beginning to thaw and sunlight pours through the windows of Pierre’s residence. He is working at his desk when a servant knocks to inform him that his fiancee the countess has arrived and is waiting in the drawing room.

He stands so quickly he almost knocks over his chair and practically runs down the hallway. He bursts into the drawing room and there she is, bathed in light, humming a waltz to herself and turning slowly, her arms embracing an invisible partner.

It strikes Pierre how happy Natasha has become–or, perhaps, how her happiness has returned. It reminds him of when she was young, always laughing, sparkling, the brightest diamond in any ballroom. For a moment he is frozen in the doorway, watching her, unable to want or think of anything else.

And then her dance brings her face to face with him. “Oh!” she laughs. “There you are. Standing still seemed like such an obvious way to wait for you.”

A smile breaks across Pierre’s face. There are too many thoughts tumbling through his mind for him to say something coherent, so instead he reaches for her waist and hand and gives her someone to dance with, humming a steady waltz as they dance across the room.

“Have you been at your books today?” Natasha asks.

“Yes, of course. And some estate business.”

“And you’ll be at the Narishkins’ ball tonight?”

“We’re going in the same sleigh,” he tells her bemusedly.

“All the more reason to double check,” Natasha smiles, and he realizes she’s teasing him.

“Tasha…” Pierre stops dancing, raises his hand from Natasha’s waist to her cheek. “You’re so…” Full of light, he wants to say, and grace, and splendor. “…miraculous.”

For a moment he worries that she won’t understand, that she’ll be confused by the complete non-sequitur, but her gaze deepens, and she turns her head to press a kiss into the palm of his hand. Of course she understands. She’s Natalya Rostova.

She’ll be Natalya Bezukhova soon. The thought makes his heart pound. She’ll be here every day, at table with him, in the library, in his bed, in the drawing room dancing by herself in the sunlight.

She steps close to him and frames his face with her hands. “I am only as miraculous as you,” she whispers, and stands on tiptoe to press a kiss to his mouth. Her hands come to rest on his shoulders and she leans her head against his chest. His arms encircle her and he sways where he stands.

They stand like that for long, quiet moments, before the silence is broken by Natasha’s stomach growling. Laughter peels from her once more as she looks up at him and asks, “Is there any chance we could ring for tea?”


	13. basorexia revisited

He comes home from a meeting across town and hears her singing.

She’s one flight of stairs and two corridors away, but the door to her personal drawing room is open and he can hear her, and  _how has he missed her this much, they ate breakfast together this morning._

He takes the steps two at a time, forgetting to deposit his greatcoat with the footman. They’ll call him the eccentric Count Bezukhov for that, but then, they’ve called him such things for a long time now, and Pierre has decided they’re correct, and it’s best if he just owns up to it.

Natasha’s accompanying herself at the piano since Sonya is away paying calls. She’s just finished warming up and is starting in on a French art song when her husband strides through the door.

She glances over at him, smiles, and slides over on the piano bench, making room for him. The bench creaks at his sits down next to her; she leans across him to reach the low notes with her left hand.

Sitting so close, her smell filling his nose and her voice filling his soul, Pierre can’t stop himself from winding a curl of her hair around his index finger. He sees a flush rise in her cheeks; she sings a beautiful ascending arpeggio but falters on the way down. He’s completely in love with everything about her, down to the way the French words roll of her tongue.

She comes to the end of a phrase and, instead of counting out the rests and continuing, she turns to him, gives him a look that tells him she’s as feverish as he is, and he leans down, tugs forward, his mouth against hers, already open, hot and wet and sweet and he never wants it to end.

Her hands press against the lapels of his coat, slide to the back of his neck. She scratches him lightly with her nails and he moans, leaning into her, wrapping a hand around her waist, pressing her back. Now her hands are in his hair, fingertips against his scalp, his everything, his Natasha, the one who brought light and hope and music back into his life.

They break apart with a gasp, Natasha’s lips already swollen from his kisses. Making love in the middle of the day seems like the kind of decadence he’d dedicated himself to avoiding, but by God, he’s tempted.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “I should have–how has your day been? How are you?”

“I’m wonderful,” Natasha tells him, half gasping, half laughing. “My day’s taken a considerable turn for the better.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“It would be further improved by you shutting the door and taking off your coat.”

Pierre blinks. “Oh?”

“Indeed.”

She gives him those eyes–Natasha, he has learned, has absurdly tantalizing bedroom eyes–and he feels his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

“I have a better idea,” he says as he stands and lifts her off of the bench, throwing her over his shoulder as she gives a surprise shriek.

“I need to play the piano more often,” Natasha sighs as Pierre strides toward their bedroom.

The sigh turns into a groan when she feels Pierre’s mouth at her neck.


	14. you ruined everything

in response to the request  _Pierretasha + college AU + grieving for Andrei_

Natasha was sitting on the floor of her dorm room, in the middle of her fourth (or was it fifth? she’d lost count) repeat singalong to _“_ You Stupid Bitch”. Sonya had an evening class and wouldn’t be back for at least another hour.

“Andrei completes me but how can that be when there’s no me left to complete?” she sang, wondering how easy it would be to find someone to buy her alcohol on a weeknight when all her usual suppliers had most emphatically been banished from her life.

“You ruined eeeeeverything, you stupid, stupid–”

She looked up when she heard the knock at the door. At least she had resisted the urge to change into pajamas at 5:00 P.M.

“Oh, Pierre. Hi.”

“Hey.” Her friend loomed in the doorway. His arms were crossed, probably because he didn’t know what to do with his hands. The expression on his face–she couldn’t pin it down, exactly, but it was so soft–saved him from looking intimidating. Only Pierre, she thought, could loom in a non-threatening fashion.

“I, uh…” Pierre said, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was nervous, “I heard the _Crazy Ex-Girlfriend_ soundtrack from down the hall and thought maybe I should…I was in the building anyway, Marya D and I were studying for our Russian midterm…anyway…”

“No, thank you, thanks for stopping by…” Somewhere behind them, the song started over.

Pierre raised his eyebrows. “‘You Stupid Bitch’ on repeat?” Natasha nodded. “Yeah, I know that feeling.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on Natasha’s face. “Do you want to come in?”

“Only if you want me to.”

Natasha stepped away from the door in response. As the it swung closed behind Pierre, she turned off the music and turned on the electric kettle.

“I was thinking about where to find booze,” she explained, “and then I remembered that time I ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning.”

“Yeah, please don’t do that again,” Pierre breathed. Natasha noticed that he’d gone pale.

“Don’t worry,” she said, false cheer in her voice as she grabbed two mugs off the windowsill and reached for a box of tea bags. “This is the strongest stuff I drink now.”

“Natasha.”

She looked at him.

“You don’t have to put on a face for me.”

“I know,” she whispered, biting her lip in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. It didn’t work. “Oh, Pierre.” Her mouth twisted as she tried not to sob.

In a moment she was in Pierre’s arms, her face pressed into his t-shirt, tears soaking the fabric.

“I’m so sorry,” he heard her say, her voice muffled. “I’m sorry I’m still like this, it’s like I can’t–get past–I’m so sorry, I should be–it should be better–by now…”

“Shhhh,” Pierre soothed, bringing a hand to her back of her head and rocking back and forth for a moment. “I’m sure people keep saying this and you probably want to punch them, but give it more time. It always takes more time than you…than you think.”

Natasha sniffed. “I’m sorry,” she said again, looking up at him. “I shouldn’t keep crying into your shirt like this, this is what, the third time?”

“I have a lot of shirts, Natasha. Cry into as many of them as you need.“

“I’m so stupid,” she whispered after a moment. “How could I not–”

“Tasha,” Pierre said, his voice firm. “You made a mistake. No one will ever be harder on you about it than yourself. But you talk as though the entirety of the blame lies on you. He’s an asshole, Natasha. He’s a thoughtless, feckless fuckboy. If you got played, it’s only because he played you. Because _he’s an asshole_. And it will probably take a long time, but Andrei will forgive you. Someday. Right now you have to focus on forgiving yourself.”

 _That’s rich, Bezukhov_ , Pierre thought. _And how well are_ you _doing with that?_

Well, the advice was always easier to give than to receive.

Natasha gave a watery chuckle. “You sound like Sonya and Marya.”

“Well, Sonya and Marya are smart people.”

“Yeah.” She sniffed again. “Do you want to…do you have any plans tonight? You could stay for a while, maybe grab some dinner with me and Sonya?”

“That sounds great.”

“I’m too wrecked to do homework tonight, but everything for tomorrow’s taken care of.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Natasha reached for her laptop. “If you think I’m saying _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ marathon–”

“Cool cool cool, no doubt no doubt no doubt.”

She finally gave him a full-fledged smile.

Sonya found them, six episodes later, in the middle of a blanket fort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You Stupid Bitch" is an excellent song and Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is an excellent show. You can listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrPrr4wmnJ4


	15. accidentally sleeping in

_comin’ at ya with that college AU because I feel like accidentally sleeping in’s gonna have more consequences there_

*****

_**accidentally sleeping in** _

*

Natasha rolled over and felt her face bump against Pierre’s shoulder. Sleeping so close to him was both a pleasure and a necessity--there was barely room for both of them in his twin-sized dorm room bed. Sonya couldn’t understand how Natasha ever got a good night’s sleep when she was there, but Pierre seemed to make everything easier, even sleeping.

Light was seeping through the translucent blind. She sat up slightly to check the clock.

And then she sat bolt upright.

“Pierre!” She shook him by the shoulder. “Wake up, Pierre.”

He shifted and rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Hhmmm?”

“It’s 9:15.”

He was suddenly wide awake. “What? How?”

They both scrambled out of bed. Natasha headed for the bathroom while Pierre reached for his phone. “Shit. You know how I changed the alarm to 8:30 so we’d have an extra half hour since we were up so late?”

“Yep,” Natasha called through a mouthful of toothpaste.

“I did the thing where you brush the third column by accident and change it to PM and now you’re gonna be late for class.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Natasha said, snatching Pierre’s hairbrush from the dresser and dragging it through her hair. “I’ve got--twelve minutes, and Pushkin Hall is right across the street.” She looked at her clothes, which had been piled in a chair rather unceremoniously the previous night. “Damn. I was gonna go back and shower and change.”

Staying the night had been something of an accident. Usually they reserved their limited number of overnight guest passes for weekends, or evenings when they didn’t have morning classes the next day.

Last night had gotten a bit...intense...and it had just made the most sense for Natasha to stay over.

“I think you left a skirt here once,” Pierre said as Natasha braided her hair off to one side. He rummaged in a drawer and produced her favorite knee-length A-line.

“I’ve been looking for that!” She took it from him and frowned. “I wore a dress here last night, though--can I borrow a t-shirt?”

“You know everything I own will be huge on you.”

“There are few problems that cannot be solved with a good cinch at the waist.”

Five minutes later Natasha emerged from the bathroom with a scrubbed face and an overlarge Hogwarts t-shirt tucked into her skirt. “This’ll do just fine for an hour and half of French, and I can run home and change before chorale.”

“Take a yogurt cup,” Pierre said, tossing her one from the fridge. She grabbed a spoon from the top of the microwave and swiped an apple for good measure. 

“Shoes, backpack, purse, water bottle, I have my book from doing homework yesterday, okay--hey,” she reached up to touch Pierre’s face, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She gave him another kiss, one that lasted a bit longer, and tasted like last night, and made her think of clothes on the floor and fingers tangled in hair.

“Ohmygodyou’vegottogo,” Pierre said as he pulled away.

“Five minutes to spare!” she sang, opening the door. “See you tonight!”


	16. we were angels once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in honor (and mourning) of the final performance of Great Comet, 3 September 2017.

_Moscow, 1820_

Pierre and Natasha sat together in front of the fire, holding steaming glasses of tea in their hands as the third day of September passed into the forth. The children were long asleep, and their parents leaned against each other, savoring the quiet, the crackling of the fire, the press of the other’s arm and the gentle feel of their breathing.

“Tasha, darling.”

Natasha leaned her head against Pierre’s shoulder. “Hm?”

“Do you think there will always be someone to remember us?”

“What do you mean?”

Pierre leaned forward, the glass of tea suddenly seeming so small between his large hands. “I was just thinking…I don’t know why…but we’ll be gone someday. Do you think, beyond the children, perhaps, do you think there will always be someone who knows that we were here? Who we were?”

He felt Natasha’s hand trace a line up his back as she thought, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. Pierre arched into her touch.

“Do you think people will always know who Napoleon is?”

His brow furrowed. “Of course. Even if he is not a great man, his actions are so—he influenced so many—or at least the history books will say he did.”

“Well, and if they remember Napoleon, why shouldn’t they remember you or I? What is Napoleon to Mashenka? She may grow up hearing about how her father was taken prisoner by his soldiers or how her Uncle Nikolai served the tsar against him, but even that is far more about you or Nikolai than it is Napoleon. How much more will it mean to her that you ran around the house with her on your shoulders when she was small, or that you read to her before bed every night? What is she more likely to tell her own children?”

“But suppose something…happens. Suppose at some point none of the children’s children’s children have sons or daughters of their own. Suppose there is another war. No, I’m sorry,” he said as Natasha turned her head to the left and uttered three quick _toi_ s to ward off bad luck. “I’m troubling you. It was just something I was thinking of, I didn’t mean—”

“Shhhh,” Natasha soothed. She took a long sip of tea. “I think, somehow, I think there will always be someone who knows. Even if they don’t know the names Pyotr Kirillovich or Natalya Ilynichna, they’ll know they had a great-great-great grandfather. Everything comes from somewhere. And everyone. I was telling Nikolai once—my God, so many years ago—Pierre, how was it so many years ago?—but I was trying to explain—we have immortal souls. They—us, our souls—we were somewhere before we were here, whether we remember or not. And we will be somewhere after. With God, who is love, and if God is everywhere, and love is everywhere, and God is right here, then somehow, somehow we’ll have to be here, at least a little.”

Pierre sat up and looked at her. He could feel tears brimming in his eyes, and all the affection and ardor he felt for Natasha, and their love, and their life together seemed to be pouring out with them.

“Oh, Petrushka…” Natasha’s hand came to cradle the side of his face. “Nothing ever ends. Certainly not love. Not really.”

“No,” he heard himself whisper. “You’re right, my dearest. And I love you.”

“Love you too,” she murmured, tilting her face up, her mouth meeting his in a tender kiss that reassured both of them.

 _Love you_. The words seemed so small, Natasha thought, and yet that was it. That was everything, and always would be.


	17. divine, delicious

_for the tumblr prompt "Natasha, Pierre, and Things You Should Not Do At A Party", ft. college au_

*

She hasn’t been to a party since…before.

It’s technically an apartment-warming for Marya Bolkonskaya, who’s finally managed to save up enough money for six months’ rent so she doesn’t have to go home to her father over the summer.

The party also happens to coincide with the end of finals.

And the annual neighborhood block party.

There’s no way Natasha can miss it, and in any case she doesn’t want to. She and Pierre are both thrilled for Marya, who’s waiting for them on the back porch, arm-in-arm with Nikolai. 

“I’m so sorry we’re late!” Natasha cries, throwing her arms around Marya. “Pierre and I were packing his things and we lost track of time.  _He has so many books, Masha_.”

“Don’t worry.” laughs Marya, “things have just gone full swing.”

“Sonya just arrived,” says Nikolai, “with that girl from her English class, are they…?”

“Katya, and yes, finally, it happened like a week ago,” Natasha explains. “Aren’t they the cutest?”

“They are,” he agrees, a smile spreading across his face.

“Go in, go in,” Marya urges. “Everyone…everyone’s here.”

Everyone is not here.

Andrei is stationed at a military base in Germany, Natasha knows. 

Natasha checked.

Pierre knows where her mind is, slips his hand into hers. “C’mon, Tasha. I heard a rumor there would be ginger beer.”

“You heard correctly,” Marya says. Pierre’s been sober for a year now.

“Congratulations, dear Masha,” he says, dropping a brotherly kiss on the top of her head since her actual brother isn’t here to do it.

The apartment is packed. Marya Dmitryevna is already two beers and one shot of vodka in and is standing on a coffee table declaiming something in Italian. Language majors.

Evening shades into nighttime as the sun sinks below the roof line. The air turns cool and the sounds of indie folk music float up from the bandstands to Marya’s sixth floor apartment. The alleys are strung with fairy lights.

Natasha and Pierre are out on the front balcony. A bottle of Blue Moon dangles from Natasha’s hand, nearly empty. She and Pierre lean on the railing, arms pressing against each other, saying nothing, just listening. Existing together.

Natasha takes one last swig and sets the bottle on the ground. She leans more emphatically against her boyfriend and rubs her head against his shoulder like a cat.

“What’s up with you?” he asks, laughter edging his voice. 

“I’m just so happy,” she sighs, looping one arm around his shoulder and pulling him down to her. 

“Tasha, sweetheart, maybe…not here.”

“Why not?” she murmurs.

“Anyone could come out…”

Half of the people in the apartment wouldn’t care, and the other half are probably making out in front of the first half as they speak, but Natasha knows that Pierre is less concerned about other people’s embarrassment than he is about his own right now.

“Then let’s find somewhere more private,” Natasha says in that slow, lilting way that tells Pierre she’s managed to get tipsy off one beer.

“I’m not ready to leave yet.”

“Use your imagination, Petrushka.”

“You and my imagination are a dangerous combination in public places.”

“Oh come on,” she says with a smile, taking him by the hand and pulling him inside.

“It’s Masha’s housewarming,” Pierre reminds her, bending low to speak in her ear as they move through the crowd.

“And despite that, I’ve already had the tour. Which means…” Natasha stops in front of a door and looks around quickly. Everyone else is either in the front room or the kitchen. “Spare closet.”

The door is opened, Pierre follows behind her, the door is shut.

It’s snug, but not cramped. Pitch black, but they’ve spent enough time in the dark together by now that it doesn’t make any difference.

“Hello there,” Pierre says.

“Dear Petrushka. Kiss me.”

He finds her face with his hands and she goes up on her tiptoes. They meet halfway.

Natasha knows what raw physical attraction feels like, how it burns from the inside out. She felt it once for a man who behaved like a child, who said he loved her, who lied. And for so long she was afraid of ever feeling it again, because of what she’d done because of it, how she’d justified it to herself, how she’d ruined everything.

Well, apparently not  _everything_ , because here she is in a closet, her body pressed flush to Pierre’s, her lips opening and closing against his, her tongue in his mouth, that tingling hunger starting in her center and spreading through her whole body. Giving in to that same attraction she first did not understand, then despised. 

Now everything is different. Everything is  _Pierre_.

“Natasha,” he sighs, “Natalya, you’re killing me.”

He’s sucking at her neck now, his hands are clasping her waist, one of them sliding higher. She nods and pulls at her shirt, the neckline of which has been torturing Pierre all night.

And then the door flies open.

“We are so sorry!” Natasha blinks against the sudden light and finds Marya, eyes wide, her hand pressed over her mouth.

“Oh, Bezukhov,” says Nikolai, “I really could have gone my whole life without seeing you feeling up my sister.”

“You didn’t knock!” Natasha cries. “You never knock! Remember that, Masha, he’s the worst about it, he always has been, I had to put a sign  _on the door of my room_  at home.”

“Why would we knock on the door of a closet  _in Marya’s own apartment_?” replies Nikolai.

“Why wouldn’t you sneak away to  _Marya’s own bedroom_ , Nikolenka, like a sensible person?”

Pierre suspects that the Rostov siblings are making a scene on purpose to distract everyone from embarrassment. He glances at Marya. Judging by the heat of his own face, they’ve both flushed an identical shade of red.

“Don’t worry about it,” Pierre says, cutting Nikolai off mid-sentence. “We should–the polite thing is to return to the party, of course.”

And then they hear giggles.

“Shh, I’m pretty sure there’s a closet this way–” Sonya and her new girlfriend round the corner, hand in hand.

Sonya stops short, her mouth forming a perfect, silent “O”. “It appears we are not the first people to have this idea.”

“WOULD YOU ALL GET A ROOM?” Marya Dmitryevna’s voice booms from the other room. It might be the first sentence she’s spoken in English for upwards of five hours. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked it, go on and hit that kudos button! I'd love to hear from you in the comments section or on tumblr @je-suis-em-jee (and you can send me prompts there too!)


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